Page 19 of His To Erase

The bright side is, at least I don’t have to walk home. My feet will thank me—my pride, maybe not so much.

I finish locking the door behind me, sliding the key into place with a satisfying click.

The alley beside the bar is quiet, lit only by the flickering lights overhead.

I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, bracing for the chill that always creeps in after close—only to freeze halfway through the motion.

Frank’s standing there like he’s been waiting for me.

He has one foot propped against the wall, with his hands tucked into his coat and that same cocky half-smile plastered across his face.

“You really should let me drive you home,” he says smoothly, pushing off the wall and stepping toward me.

I take a small step back, not because I’m afraid, but because his presence always feels like a little too much. Like standing too close to a fire. You don’t know if you’re warming up or about to get burned.

“My Uber’s almost here.” I shrug, forcing my voice to stay light. “Besides, I don’t make a habit of getting into cars with strange men.”

“Strange?” His smile tilts, not quite a smirk, but not super friendly either. “Ani, we’ve been seeing each other for months. Come on.”

Fuck. I was afraid of this. Why can’t men just let things be the way they are and be okay with being friend zoned.

If we’re dating then what I did in the library… No, I’m not going there. I’ve always been clear with Frank about my feelings.

His gaze drags over me, and he smiles. “Why are you still pretending this is some cat-and-mouse thing? You’re not hard to get—you’re just scared to want it.”

I scoff, but before I can come up with something snarky, he moves closer.

My back hits the wall with a soft thud as his hand braces beside my head, his body angled just enough to keep me boxed in without ever touching me.

“I know you’re stubborn,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “But isn’t it exhausting pretending you don’t want this.”

His mouth dips—hovering near mine. Just close enough that I can feel his breath, and taste the mix of whiskey and smoke still clinging to him.

My heart starts racing and every nerve is on alert, even as my brain screams bad idea like it’s the only word left in the English language.

I hate how controlled he is. I also hate how every move he makes is calculated and carefully timed, like he’s playing a long game I haven’t been given the rules to. I don’t even know what to think anymore.

“Frank—” I start, tone sharp.

But then he kisses me.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just soft. Intentional. A brush of lips that lingers a beat too long to be casual.

It’s the kind of kiss designed to disarm. Like if he plays it just right, I’ll fold before I even realize I’m doing it.

And maybe I would’ve. If I didn’t know better. If I wasn’t already haunted by another mouth.

Before anything more can happen, a sharp honk slices through the night. The Uber. Thank God. We both glance toward it, headlights cutting across the brick wall.

Frank just leans back a fraction, with that smug, practiced smile sliding back into place, smooth as ever.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, doll.”

I don’t answer. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. I really need to figure out what the hell I’m doing about the men in my life.

I push past him, gripping the car door handle like it’s the only thing anchoring me to reality and slide in without looking back.

Because the truth is...yeah, he’s good-looking. He’s the kind of man girls ruin their lives for. But I’m not most girls.

And I’ve already been ruined once.

The last thing I need right now is a man. The only issue is—he’s not the one I can’t stop thinking about.

It’s not his inked hands I want touching me. Not his voice curling under my skin and making it hard to breathe. It’s not his stare that sees too much—stripping me bare like he already knows what I’m hiding.

Frank looks like the prize. But he feels like a fucking trap.

The Uber driver doesn’t say a word as we pull away, and I don’t look back. Not once. I just sit there—silently—watching the bar disappear behind me like a chapter I’m pretending not to reread in my head.

I’m too wired to breathe, and too tired to care. The kiss still lingers on my lips, and it feels like a mistake. How did this happen?

My mind drifts back to the first night I met Frank.

Thick, dark blood soaked through his shirt. His hand was pressed to his side like he was trying to hold himself together.

I remember freezing.

Not because I was afraid, but because of the way he looked at me. He was smiling through the pain. His knuckles were scraped, and his jaw was already bruised. He looked like he’d been jumped—or dragged behind a truck.

"You’re supposed to look scared," he said, sounding all gravel and pain.

I wasn’t scared of him, what could he possibly do in that state.

I dropped beside him and pressed my hands over his, trying to slow the bleeding. He winced and told me I didn’t have to stay. But I did.

I thought it was the right thing to do, to at least stay until the ambulance came. He never passed out. Not once. He just stared at me with that same unnerving calm, like we were meeting under normal circumstances.

When the medics arrived, he still found the strength to smile at me and insisted I ride with him to the hospital. He said it was either that or bleed all over the EMT who looked like he might puke at the sight of a paper cut.

And for some goddamn reason—I went.

We talked the whole way there. Or rather—I talked. He listened. Mostly because I was afraid if I didn’t keep him awake, he wouldn’t make it. But maybe part of me just didn’t want to leave him alone. Not like that. Not bleeding and half-smiling.

I couldn’t have that on my conscience.

At the hospital, he told me saving his life meant we were connected now. It was some pretty fucked-up logic, but somehow he made it make sense. He asked me to stay until the doctor came. So I did.

When they told him it wasn’t as bad as it looked—that he would just need a few stitches and a night under observation—he grinned like he’d won a bet.

He told me I was now his favorite person in the city.

I should’ve walked away right then. I should’ve let the ER doors close behind me and left him as nothing more than a crazy night wrapped in gauze and smug gratitude.

But I have no self preservation skills.

The next day, he showed up at the bar. Not with flowers or some grand gesture—just a coffee. It was somehow my order, and he sat at the end of the bar like he belonged there and then it became a pattern.

A drink always waiting before I even clocked in. Dinner. And that slow, steady smile like he had all the time in the world for me.

Frank never pushed. Not really. That’s the part that made it harder to see coming. He was all smooth lines and slow smiles. He never asked for more than I was willing to give—until suddenly, I’d given just enough to make it hard to pull away.

And now he shows up out of nowhere, flashing expensive jewelry and that same cocky look, like we’re still writing the same story.

The bell over the library door jingles as someone leaves. The soft rustle of pages and the ancient air vent’s low wheeze are the only sounds that remain.

I move through the stacks with purpose. Or at least, what I’m pretending is purpose—arms full of books I’ve already shelved once today. Maybe twice. I tell myself I’m just being thorough. Responsible, even.

The chair by the back window is empty. Again. Sunlight spills across the seat like a cosmic joke.

It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic.

I jam a book back into its spot a little too hard, wincing when the spine smacks the shelf loud enough to echo.

It’s not like I wanted to see him. I just…

noticed he hadn’t been here. And okay, maybe I was actively looking.

Maybe I took the long way around the return desk three separate times.

Maybe I circled the philosophy section so many times I’m starting to feel like a creep in my own workplace.

But apparently, the universe had other plans.

“You okay, or did Aristotle just finger your frontal lobe?”

I jump—hard. Spinning around like I’ve just been caught watching porn in a church.

Heat scorches up my neck, flushing my face so fast it makes me dizzy. I can feel the blush blooming across my cheeks like a goddamn crime scene, and of course—Sloane notices.

She leans against the end of the aisle, arms crossed, with one brow arched like she already knows what was going through my head.

She pops a piece of gum into her mouth—slow and dramatic—like this is just another Tuesday for her.

Which, honestly? It probably is.

A grin curls at her lips. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

I blink. “What?”

“That flush.” She gestures toward my face. “You look like you were two seconds away from dry humping Fifty Shades and got caught.”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “I was not—”

“Sure, sure,” she cuts in, already laughing. “So… who were you hoping to run into over here? Or should I say… who were you trying to climb?”

I freeze.

Heat flashes up the back of my neck going straight into my ears, and I fumble the stack of books like she just tasered me in the uterus.

“I’m doing my job,” I mutter, clutching the books tighter, suddenly fascinated by the nonfiction section.

“Uh-huh.” Sloane leans against the shelf, one brow raised, her smirk is full of judgment and unholy delight. “Must be a riveting morning if you’ve alphabetized the same section four times.”

“I’m not looking for anyone,” I snap.

Instant regret.

Her grin stretches. “Didn’t say you were.”

I roll my eyes and shove the last book into place with a little too much force. “Do you ever—like—not talk?”

She taps her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Only when I’m asleep. Maybe. Honestly, I’d have to ask someone.”

I hate how easy it is to smile around her. I also hate how she sees through every single mask I try to wear, and still chooses to show up like I’m worth the effort.